


The Rhythm of Your Heart

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: your voice inside my head [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Floof, Fluff, Slow Dancing, Warning: This is Pure Sappiness, all the floof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:11:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: "Dance with me."Graves looks up at her, exhausted, frustrated, in need of a break. His face is pinched, hair a tousled mess."Pardon?""Dance with me," Queenie repeats, offering him her hand. Graves accepts.





	The Rhythm of Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebeholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/gifts).



> This is for bluebeholder who provides us with the most wonderful moments of Graves' life and wanted some Greenie fluff. I give you, sappy Greenie fluff while I try to sort out the other messes I call my fics. This is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

"Dance with me."

Graves look up from the map he's studying, blinking at her, eyes dark and liquid. He looks exhausted. His face is pinched and haggard, his clothing a mess of rolled up shirt sleeves and wrinkles. Even his hair belies his weariness; it's a tousled nest of loose strands and absent curls, like he's been running his hands through it and tugging when he's frustrated.

[It’s a habit Queenie and the others have noted over the last few weeks, Percival pulling at his hair. Honestly, she’s surprised it hasn’t started to come out in lumps yet, considering how worn down he is tonight.]

In short, Percival looks like he needs a break. Queenie stretches out her hand to him, smiling soft and bright.

"Pardon?" Graves asks, dazed, brain finally processing the information his eyes and ears have fed it.

"Dance with me," Queenie says again.

He studies her for a moment, eyes flickering between her hand and her face, a bevy of emotions crossing his own as he contemplates her offer (demand). Queenie waits, patiently, sure to keep her smile open and warm.

That smile blooms into a full grin when Graves accepts. He reaches out and takes her small, smooth hand in his own large, rough one. Percival cradles it like a proper gentlemen, all fleeting contact and whispered promises. Queenie smiles up at him, rejoicing in the fleeting quirk of lips that Graves manages in return, and flicks her wand at the beaten up gramophone in the corner of Newt's shed.

A song fills the space between them, slow and crooning. It’s all smoke and whiskey, the voice that serenades them as Queenie draws close and Graves' other hand settles on her waist. She can feel the heat of his skin through her clothes, wants to lean into his touch when he thumbs the swoop of her hip absently, but she resists. Instead, they dance slowly over uneven floorboards, a vague rendition of some waltz meant for couples. Graves leads, skillfully navigating around the shed's clutter in perfect time to the music. To any outsider they would look like the perfect couple, beautiful; hell, she feels beautiful, with Percival gazing at her like he does. The exhaustion is slowly melting away from his features, replaced with something similar to wonder. It fills her belly with butterflies.

Queenie is familiar with being regarded as some object, to be chased and then cast aside when you realize she's got a brain and nerves of steel under that pretty face. But Graves looks at her like she's hung the moon and stars and made the sun burn in the sky. She doesn't have to hear his thoughts to know what he's thinking. The emotions play across his face in a wonderful, breathtaking show of vulnerability. It makes Queenie warm and tingly.

She watches this all from beneath her lashes, as those expressions come and go, soon replaced by an easy, charming, content smile. Percival looks younger, less ragged, more human despite his sometimes too sharp teeth and the sometimes too magnificent jawline that belies another ancestry.

He is beautiful. And sweet and gentle, despite the hard outer shell he throws at the world outside this case.

As Queenie stares up at him, that warm sensation growing in her chest morphs into something a lot like an itch. Itches demand to be scratched.

_Kiss him._

Suddenly, driven by some instinct which swamps her reasoning, she surges up on her tiptoes and presses a chaste peck to his lips. Percival tastes like those peppermints the mooncalves like, and coffee, and stress. He inhales sharply through his nose, but Percival never falters, sweeping them back to the centre of the room.

It’s over as quickly as it began, and Queenie floods with embarrassment. It extinguishes whatever fire burned in her bones seconds ago. Queenie opens her mouth to apologize, stilling in Percival’s arms.

"Perry, I-"  
But her words are lost when Percival ducks his head and presses their mouths together again in another, lingering, kiss. They stop fully, in the middle of the shed, Percival's hand abandoning her waist to cup her face, calloused thumbs against powdery soft skin.

Queenie melts into him, against the solid, sure weight of his chest. She throws her arms about his neck and clutches the buzzed hair at his nape. It is soft and yet prickly beneath her palms. She caresses it as their mouths find their own dance.

When they finally pull apart, Percival is still looking at her like she makes the world turn, but there's something else burning in that gaze which wasn't there before. Its presence makes the butterflies in her belly all that much stronger. Queenie giggles, because she doesn't know what else to do. She feels like she's drunk, floating on some strange cloud of euphoria. Percival joins her, chuckling, eyes soft. His grip shifts again. Big palms scrape over the fabric of Queenie's dress until his arms settle in a more intimate embrace with Queenie pressed against his chest, Percival cradling her close. Those arms which are so gentle, but course with power that thrums just beneath the surface.

Queenie snuggles close, as Percival's feet start to move again, closing her eyes and lets the motion sweep her away. The singer’s voice no longer fills the air between them, but swells around them as the last tendrils of the music die away. Then, they continue on, to the rhythm of their feet on the floor and their heartbeats.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think or come scream at me on tumblr. I reside at luminis-infinite@tumblr.com


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